Cantons of Contemned Love
by MissTempleton
Summary: It was always going to happen when least expected. On the other hand, the way it happened was still the most likely circumstance. Oh, and there's a murder. "Write loyal cantons of contemned love" Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson swung the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher through a neat half-turn as they reached the end of the ballroom and thanked his stars once again for … well, more or less everything, really.

First and foremost, he hadn't yet fallen over.

Second, he had in his arms the person who was unarguably the most beautiful, charming and exciting woman in the room.

Third, she was his lover. Had now been for some months, and they appeared to be succeeding in keeping their relationship secret from most of the population of the planet (apart from one English racehorse trainer, the second housemaid of an English country house, one senior member of Scotland Yard, a captain of the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company and the population and adherents of 221B The Esplanade, Melbourne). In 1920s Melbourne society, that mattered.

The music drew to a close at that lucky point immediately before his smile went from the dignified to the fatuous, and he walked Phryne off the dance floor back to their table.

She looked around the room, and back at Jack questioningly.

"Did you see what happened to Gervase? He promised me a foxtrot, and that's the next thing on the card."

He shrugged. "No, but why don't we go and look for him? I could do with a drink, and he can't have gone far. His rooms are just across the quad, though I can't believe he'd have retired already."

She readily agreed, collecting her bag, and they wandered out of the University ball into the sultry evening air. Passing along the terrace outside the bar, they couldn't see their host, but Jack took the opportunity to secure a cold beer, though Phryne eschewed the Sauvignon.

Gaining the bottom of the stairs, Phryne turned to him.

"You hang on here and finish your drink. I'll go and look for him – it won't take long."

He was more than happy to prop himself against one of the cool stone pillars, and she was back within minutes.

"The poor love's sound asleep! I knew he'd been working overtime on his book, so I suppose it's hardly surprising. Still … how's your foxtrot, Jack?"

"A lot more slow, slow than quick, quick, to be honest – could we take a break?"

She graciously agreed to a break. By the time they had done almost a complete circuit of the quadrangle, she'd suggested a fireside whisky. He agreed that the fireside might be a better place to carry out the suggestion she'd made immediately before that; Cec was only mildly surprised to be taking them home so early.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Professor Gervase Carstairs' tutor group were, for once, largely on time, which was a great shame; because Prof Carstairs was himself late.

They all agreed this wasn't like the Prof, but inertia ruled – having achieved the supreme goal of turning up, some of them even having read the subject matter for the tutorial beforehand, they decided their work was (for the time being) done, and conversation proceeded in a desultory manner for half an hour or so, on anything other than their chosen subject of Economics. As freshers, their chief priority was to study the supply of beer in the local hostelries, the range of prices at which it was available and their own demand for it.

Research had, to date, been both extensive and exhaustive, and a nine a.m. tutorial was the chief casualty.

Eventually, the youngest and keenest member of the group – a bespectacled youth called Smith because he didn't want anyone to know his first name was Aubrey – asked whether they shouldn't perhaps let someone know that the Prof hadn't shown up.

"And risk forfeiting a credit for the tutorial?" scoffed the loudmouth of the group. Henry Conway, the rising son (and rising sun) of a newly-successful retail entrepreneur had no more doubt of his own value to society than he had awareness of its lack. Aubrey ignored him and made for the office at the foot of the building, where ladies with typewriters and telephones fought the losing battle to keep the department on track.

Haltingly, he eventually managed to get the message across, and the most senior of those present tutted very severely. Whether her disapproval was at Prof. Carstairs for failing to attend a tutorial or Aubrey Smith for reporting it was deliberately left open to conjecture.

Heaving herself to her feet, she opened a window and summoned a porter from the lodge with a parade-ground voice that would have put a sergeant major to the blush.

"Mr Johnson," everything about her was heavy. Her physique, her delivery, her eyes and quite possibly even her heart. "Please would you go to Professor Carstairs' rooms and inform him that his tutor group are awaiting him." The matter was closed with the window.

Aubrey stuttered his thanks and effaced himself. Rather than return to the room where his fellow tutees were waiting, he decided to hover at the doorway, in case the Prof decided to make an appearance for the dying minutes of the hour. He had a question about tulip bulbs that he didn't really want to ask in front of Conway.

He was therefore in the perfect position to respond when Mr Johnson flung open the window of the Professor's sitting room, and shouted:

"Help! HELP! MURDER! THERE'S BEEN A MURDER!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Jack was congratulating himself that it had, so far, been a Good Day. Admittedly, it was scarcely eleven-thirty a.m., but he'd completely finished three case reports _and_ secured the last of the biscuits Mr Butler had sent along to the station yesterday.

He looked up when he heard the door of the station open, and changed his mind about the quality of the day. Oiling his way into his territory was his counterpart from North Melbourne, Detective Inspector Algernon Rossiter. Algy Rossiter's mother loved him very much.

Someone had to.

Ignoring the polite enquiry from Collins at the front desk, Rossiter strolled into Jack's office. Jack, needless to say, remained seated and refrained from offering a handshake of welcome. Nothing to do with the fact that he marginally outranked the man, and everything to do with the fact that the last time their paths had crossed, Rossiter had done his best to have Collins upbraided for insubordination.

As responses to Not Being Brought Tea With Two Sugars went, it told Jack (and the entire population of City South) everything they needed to know about Inspector Rossiter.

"Inspector Robinson."

"Inspector Rossiter. How can I help?"

"The smallest thing, really. One of my men said it might be worth mentioning to you."

"Indeed?" Jack was all politeness. In the same way that a crocodile is politely interested in miscellaneous vermin that stops to sniff fallen fruit.

"We've got a murder on our turf. Just in. At the university. One Gervase Carstairs, Economics Professor."

Even for such a weasel as Rossiter, Jack couldn't hide his sorrow.

"Carstairs?" he remarked. "That's a shocker. I was his guest just last night at the University Ball, but he turned in early. Do you know how it happened?"

"Oh, certainly." Rossiter was clearly on tenterhooks. Something wasn't right, but for the life of him, Jack couldn't fathom what it might be. "He was shot. In the temple, at point blank range."

Jack's poker face was in good form, though his heart had definitely speeded up.

"Shot?"

"Oh, yes. And the murderer was good enough to leave the weapon behind. Careless, don't you think?"

Putting in what was definitely the best acting performance of his life by now, Jack inclined his head curiously, disquiet building within him at the unfolding story.

"More than careless, I'd say. Downright foolish. What was it?"

He knew the answer before it was given.

"Revolver. A '38. Distinctive – gold plated, with a pearl handle."

By now Rossiter was grinning widely. This wasn't about getting at Phryne, Jack realised – he wanted to undermine Jack personally. Not for a moment did Jack give away his concern. He gave a half-laugh.

"That sounds like Miss Fisher's gun. Not like her to let it out of her sight, though."

He grimaced at Rossiter. Man to man. Well, Man to Weasel.

"Want me to ask her? I didn't get the impression she had anything against Carstairs, but I should probably bring her over to you if she's got anything to report."

The ingratiating offer went down beautifully.

"That's probably best. I think her Aunt's quite close to the CC, so it probably wouldn't be a good idea to arrest the niece in broad daylight in St Kilda." He bared his teeth in what may have been intended as a smile. No, probably not. "See you later today then?"

"Or early tomorrow," temporised Jack. "Never know, with these Society ladies."

Shaking their heads over the flighty nature of the fairer sex, the two Detectives took their leave of one another. The City South one closed his office door and sat at his desk for fully fifteen minutes before doing anything at all about tracking down the Lady Detective. That was how long it took to think deeply, make three telephone calls and send the most junior constable in the building on an errand.

The household was preparing to sit down to lunch when the doorbell went at 221B The Esplanade. Mr Butler went to the door, but on hearing the voice at the door, Phryne hopped up from the table and went to greet the visitor herself.

"Jack, we're just having lunch – come and join us?"

"Actually, a quiet word first, if you don't mind, Miss Fisher?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, but agreed willingly enough, leading the way to the parlour and closing the double doors behind her.

"Miss Fisher, it pains me to have to ask such a personal question …."

"Please, ask away Inspector. Personal questions are my favourite kind."

"… but could you tell me where your pearl-handled revolver is right now?"

"Of course, Inspector. It's in my bag, here. Oh."

"You have no idea how distressing your response is to me, Miss Fisher. Especially since one of my colleagues in North is going to be absolutely delighted. On a completely unrelated matter, will you marry me?"

"Inspector, you know it is my habit to respond to your every request in the affirmative, unquestioningly, except in the unlikely event that it doesn't suit me. So yes, I'd be delighted. How does Tuesday week suit?"

"I wouldn't want anyone to think we were appearing hasty, Miss Fisher, but how does two thirty this afternoon suit? If, say, the appropriate licence has been obtained."

Something in his tone helped her understand that, despite all their loving and humorous exchanges in the past few weeks, this was not an attempt to sweep her off her feet.

Miss Phryne Fisher became Mrs John Robinson at precisely 2.37pm. The warrant for her arrest was not executed until the following morning, largely because the bride and groom inexplicably failed to return to either of their homes that night.

The manager of the Windsor Hotel was unavailable for comment.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Phryne surveyed her domain glumly. The cells at North Melbourne were largely the same as the ones in City South, but the officers were definitely a lot less decorative. She had explained to the thoroughly unpleasant Rossiter that yes, she had been at the University two nights previously, yes, she had had her revolver in her bag as usual, yes, Gervase had been alive when she last saw him and no, she and Inspector Robinson had left early. That, apparently, was enough to get her locked up. She looked speculatively at the lock on the cell door, but decided it wasn't worth drawing attention to the lock pick she'd managed to hide from the officers' perfunctory search at this stage.

Instead, she focussed on working out who could have helped themselves to the gun, and when.

Jack in the meantime, had his mind on rather bigger guns. He pulled up outside Prudence Stanley's house, took a deep breath and stepped out of the car to approach the front door, which was opened by the butler. On enquiring as to whether Mrs Stanley was At Home, he was invited in to wait.

"Detective Inspector, whatever brings you here?" Phryne's Aunt Prudence bustled into the sitting room.

"Good morning, Mrs Stanley," Jack replied courteously. "I apologise for the intrusion, but I hope when I explain, you'll see how you may be able to help. It's about Phryne."

"Well, of course," she said doubtfully. "What has Miss Fisher been up to now? I do wish she would settle down, it's really most unladylike of her to be constantly getting into scrapes."

Jack braced himself. "Actually, Mrs Stanley, it's officially Mrs Robinson. As of yesterday."

Aunt Prudence stared at him in astonishment, and sat down rather heavily on the couch.

"Whatever do you mean, Inspector?"

"Miss Fisher and I were married by special licence yesterday afternoon," he confessed.

"That seems rather hasty," she remarked – although he noticed that the disapproval he feared was not currently in evidence. "Was there a particular reason why I was excluded from the event?"

"Everyone was, I'm afraid," he said regretfully. "The fact is, we hadn't had any intention of marrying, but circumstances rather forced our hand."

Now disapproval was firmly on display. "You're not going to tell me you've got my niece in the family way, Inspector?"

"No! No, nothing like that," he said hastily. Then realised that of course, one could never be sure. What if …? No. Best not to go down that line of thought.

"It's because there's been a murder, and the weapon was Phryne's gun. The victim was a professor at the University, and Phryne and I were his guests at a ball that evening. However, I was the only person – apart from Phryne herself – who could place her in the room, quite possibly with the murder weapon, at about the time the murder took place. As we're married, I can't be required to testify against her."

This appeared to meet with Mrs Stanley's approval. "Perhaps an extreme measure to go to, Inspector, but I appreciate your efforts on my niece's behalf. I take it this is a recent attachment for you both?"

Jack smiled. "Hard to say, Mrs Stanley – but our recent case in England certainly focused our minds somewhat."

Mention of England clearly brought Phryne's father to mind for Aunt Pru, so Jack moved on hastily.

"I was hoping to ask for your help, though, in relation to our current predicament. Phryne's regarded as the chief suspect at present – admittedly, it is her gun and she was there that night."

Aunt Pru shook her head despairingly. "Why, Inspector, would a respectable young woman carry a firearm to a ball?"

Jack couldn't help reflecting that Phryne's gun had often come in handy at times one wouldn't expect to need a firearm, but decided Aunt Pru wouldn't appreciate the point.

"My difficulty is that the crime didn't take place in my precinct, and Phryne's locked up in the cells of a station whose senior officer isn't fond of me. I was hoping, Mrs Stanley, that you might be prepared to make a fuss in the ear of the Chief Commissioner? We've met him, but you know him rather better – and I think your influence would be much greater ..."

The flattery was finely judged and worked well. Mrs Stanley bridled proudly.

"William Cooper is a delightful man, and his wife is a very close friend." She fixed Jack with a Hard Stare.

"Leave It To Me, Inspector." (The capital letters were audible). "My niece will be home by nightfall or my name isn't Prudence Stanley."

He thanked her profusely and took his leave.

As it turned out, no Deed Poll for a change of name by Prudence Stanley was necessary – it was barely the middle of the afternoon when Phryne let herself in at her own front door.

Calling to Mr Butler only that she was home, and stopping off to overfill a glass of scotch she went straight to her boudoir and took a long, hot bath – prison cells being rather grubby places for both body and soul. Lying back in the scented water, she lifted her left hand and regarded the gold band upon its fourth finger without resentment but with a faint hint of curiosity. Examining her responses, she decided that for the moment at least, she was perfectly content with her changed circumstance.

After all, Jack was unlikely to make Hugh's mistake of thinking she would become the Little Woman at home. Poor Dot! That had been an awkward time for the Collinses and no mistake.

Dressing, she went downstairs and found Mr B preparing some cold meats to tempt her appetite. Naming him a gem, she tucked in, and then decided she should probably own up to the latest news.

"I'm delighted for you both," exclaimed Mr Butler. A thought occurred to him. "Is this now the Robinson Residence for callers, Miss – er, Madam?"

She pulled a face as realisation dawned.

"Do you know, Mr B, I have no idea. I think I had better discuss it with the Inspector. Perhaps stick to Miss Fisher for now, since no-one knows anyway?"

He agreed, and she decided that there was no time like the present. Grabbing hat, coat and bag, she strolled out to the Hispano-Suiza and drove to City South; before long, she was installed back on her personal corner of Jack's desk.

He couldn't deny that he was more than ever happy to see her there.

 _His wife. Good God._

"Congratulations and thanks, Jack darling – Aunt Pru put the fear of God into poor Bill Cooper and he in turn put the fear of God into the repellent Rossiter. I am requested not to leave the City boundaries, but apart from that can come and go as I please."

"We might need to decide what happens next, though, Jack – for us, I mean. Things like, are you going to move in with me properly? Do I change all my cards to "Phryne Robinson, Lady Detective" – which does have a certain ring to it, but not quite the same ... reputation..." she grinned. "I sort of had to tell Mr B, as I was sitting at his kitchen table branded with your gold band. He was thrilled, but wanted to know how he should answer the telephone."

She grimaced.

"How can getting married be so complicated?"

He returned grin for grimace.

"I think the act itself is pretty straightforward ... but you're right, we should probably be prepared to give a little publicity."

"Looking on the bright side, we can go dancing, to the theatre, to cosy dinners and everything else and not have to worry about who sees us." He raised his eyebrows. "And I can even hug you in the street without anyone needing an alibi."

He thought for a second, then hit on the idea he knew would be most likely to meet with approval.

"Why not have a party? Well, two parties. One tonight, for our nearest and dearest, and then let your Aunt Prudence organise the other for the society types you both inexplicably adore?"

He had another thought. "Does your aunt know any University people who might have known Gervase?"

She caught his thinking and instantly approved.

"If she didn't before, she does now, Jack. In the meantime, cocktails at six? And tell Senior Constable Collins that he and Dot need the delightful Miss Stubbs to do a little evening work if she can manage it."

The desk was polished a little more with her departure, and the remaining reports were that bit more bearable with the novelty of the evening ahead to look forward to.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The evening's celebration was the wedding party they'd both felt was missing. No-one was so rude as to ask why it had taken so long for them to tie the knot - Mac rather thought she understood in any case, and Dot's wisdom belied her years, but both kept silent. If she was asked, Phryne would have said that the band on her finger weighed less at the end of the evening than it had at the start; and she would have argued that even asking the question was nonsensical, because the thing weighed almost nothing anyway.

The question of the household name was discussed extensively and raucously. Bert thought that Miss Fisher should remain Miss Fisher as that was the name everyone knew her by, and Mac gave him such a slap on the back that he choked on his beer. Cec tentatively said that it would be a bit confusing for people who didn't know them if they had different names, and Dot agreed with him. Jack himself admitted that it would be quite hard to stop calling her Miss Fisher when they were on cases together, and so it was agreed: Miss Fisher would remain Miss Fisher on a case (when Jack privately assured himself that they would be able to behave professionally at all times, and Phryne privately assured herself that no-one would be any the wiser when decorum occasionally slipped) and otherwise, once Mrs Stanley had held her party the following evening, Mr Butler would be permitted to start referring to the Robinson residence on the telephone.

Jack glanced at Phryne under his lids at this conclusion but when she laughingly commented to the assembled company that he was even less likely to cope with "Mr Fisher" in Melbourne than he would with "Mr Messina" on the ship to London, he relaxed.

Slightly. And absented himself for a few moments to a liner moored off the port of Marseilles. Grey to gold, indeed.

Given recent experience with the press, they decided to forgo any formal announcements in print.

More Champagne was consumed, thanks to Mrs Robinson's stern instructions, and both Senior Constable Collins and Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson were slightly late and more than slightly unproductive when they eventually arrived at City South the following morning. When Mrs Collins turned up mid-morning with a parcel of freshly-made biscuits, she was welcomed as the goddess she truly was.

Aunt Pru's party was a grand affair – determined to launch her niece appropriately into wedded bliss in the eyes of society, she pulled out all the stops. Phryne's new desire for the company of academics perplexed her slightly, but as long as they were able to dress appropriately, she was happy to include them on the guest list.

Never one to relish such events, Jack spent the early part of the evening doing a fair imitation of a wallflower; his eyes followed Phryne around the room as she flitted from one group to the next, tossing a joke here, graciously accepting a compliment there, simply sparkling. Now and again she would glance back at him, and her eyes warmed in understanding. Eventually, she worked her way back to him.

"Mrs Robinson."

"Mr Robinson."

They grinned at each other. Still having fun, then.

"Come on, Jack, you're meant to be trying to find out who pinched my gun the other night," she chided him.

"Fair point," he admitted. "If we leave it to Rossiter we'll never find out who killed Gervase. Collins managed to get a word with one of his counterparts at North, and now that they've more or less had to write you off as a suspect - about which Rossiter is fuming, by the way – they have no leads at all."

"In that case, we'd better get busy." Together, the newlyweds worked the room; it was more than just chance that saw them spend more time with the academics than with the politicians, businessmen and other Great and Good. They automatically sought out the people who could reasonably have been expected to know that the erstwhile Miss Fisher generally carried a gun, but as her business had proved successful, it would have taken the most committed ivory tower-dweller to be unaware of the possibility.

Eventually they split up to speak to more people – Aunt P's address book having proved almost as extensive as her drawing room – and an hour later, Jack ran Phryne to ground making the liveliest element of a group seated around a corner of the swimming pool, feet dipped in the water.

"Jack!" she waved him down, as though he'd had the slightest intention of going elsewhere.

"Come and say hello to some people and prove to them that you didn't deliberately snub them at the University Ball the other night."

He took the hint, and dragged up a chair – something about his recent experience of swimming pools making him disinclined to leave limbs lying about in one.

Phryne waved a martini glass in the general direction of the group and rattled off a list of names, the owners nodding and smiling to the extent that they were still able after copious quantities of Aunt Pru's hospitality; and ended with a significant "and _this_ is Anthony Chorley!"

Jack's radar was dutifully alerted, but he was rather hoping for more clues from his wife.

 _His wife_.

He was going to have to stop doing a double take every time he thought that.

Fortunately, Phryne wasn't going to leave him quite so high and dry.

"Anthony's been working on something absolutely _seminal_ in the study of man in economics. He was a great friend of poor Gervase – Gervase was helping him with his thesis."

Immensely relieved to know his task, Jack settled into a conversation with Chorley. Agreeing that is was awful news, he disclaimed any professional role in the investigation – out of his precinct, couldn't possible step on colleagues' toes, Chorley would understand.

"So, were you at the ball as well?"

"Oh yes," the younger man tossed his head; and immediately made Jack wonder how close his relationship had been with Carstairs who'd been very much a confirmed bachelor.

"I always go to these things. My discipline is about observing capitalism at its very roots, Inspector," he smiled charmingly. "I find the best way to understand the rich is to watch their every move. Observe their decisions. Question their judgements."

He gave Jack such an arch look that the Inspector wondered for a moment whether, despite the event, he was on the receiving end of a flirtation.

"The Rich," and Jack could feel the onset of an Aristotelian climax, "Are Fascinating."

Jack happened to catch Phryne's eye as she glanced across from entertaining the Bright Young Things, which was lucky, because otherwise he would have given up then and there.

"Did you stay long? At the ball, I mean. It was a very warm night, I thought."

"Oh, I never dance, Inspector," he assured Jack. "I sat quietly in a corner near the band and Observed."

"Near the band?" asked Jack. "Then you must have been near our table – Gervase had managed to get us right next to the dance floor." Chorley winsomely admitted that this may have been the case.

"It was a busy night, mind you, so many people table-hopping – there was probably even someone sitting in our seats while we were dancing," Jack remarked chattily.

"Oh no, Inspector – no, I'm quite sure that once Gervase left, the table was empty until the two of you returned," responded Chorley emphatically.

Having drawn such a blank, Jack decided that there were only so many sacrifices a man had to make at his own marriage celebrations, and excused himself. Phryne hastily extricated her legs from the pool and, picking up her shoes, followed him back indoors. He sensed her behind him and turned.

"Please can we go home now? Please?" His expression could only be called plaintive, and her heart melted.

"Bert will be delighted. I'll tell Aunt Pru we're slipping away quietly." She borrowed his shoulder as she slipped her shoes back on, and was back in moments.

"I don't know what you've done, Jack, but Aunt P's positively solicitous. Did you manage to keep your hands out of your pockets for an entire conversation?" she asked wickedly.

He fixed her with a glance.

"No, I just gave up my eternal soul to keep her niece out of jail," he affirmed sternly. "She's having my image cast in bronze in proper recognition of my selfless sacrifice."

In the true spirit of marital compromise, Phryne promptly requested a miniature of said bronze for her dressing table, but was regretfully informed that miniatures were likely to be regarded by the historians as anachronistic.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Typically, their first marital argument was about a case. Also typically, it didn't last very long, Phryne won, and making up was more than worth the temporary discord.

Jack was firmly of the view that going back to Gervase Carstairs' rooms to search them would be a red rag to a bull for Rossiter, and probably land Phryne back in jail.

Phryne pointed out that a) he need not find out unless they found something interesting, b) the official examination of the locus must surely be complete and c) Gervase was his friend and if he thought it was acceptable to sit back and twiddle his fingers while Rossiter made a pig's ear of the investigation, he wasn't much of a friend. This last stung sufficiently to win the day, and on condition that she would stay out of sight until he had gained access from the porters, he finally agreed to go along with the plan.

Her graciousness in victory went a long way to assuaging, if not his conscience, then certainly his ego. She even allowed him to drive her car, albeit it left her hands rather dangerously free.

The porter proved tractable, and Jack was given the keys to Gervase's rooms with no more than an adjuration to return them when he'd finished. However, when they had climbed the stairs, the keys proved unnecessary. The door stood ajar, and when they pushed it open, they were aghast.

"Is this what passes for criminal investigation for your North colleagues, Jack?" asked Phryne disgustedly.

He didn't reply, but wandered into the room, which had been laid waste. Someone was clearly looking for something, and not worried in the slightest how much mess they made in the process. Books had been pulled from the shelves, papers strewn everywhere. The cushions of the beautiful sofa had been slashed, as had the mattress of the bed.

"This wasn't official work," he said with complete certainty. "Apart from the damage, the porters thought the place was locked."

She accepted the logic, and looked round thoughtfully.

"I'd say we're looking for a document of some kind. The books have been pulled out individually, so unless the intruder thought one of them was a fake with the centre cut out, it's something that could have been hidden within pages." He nodded in agreement, and followed up.

"I think they started with the books, and got increasingly desperate. Slashing the furnishings makes no sense, and the stuffing is sitting on top of everything else ... so, do we think they didn't find the papers they were looking for?"

"Yes, Jack, we do. But what on earth could Gervase have had that someone would do this to recover? I struggle to believe that the current state of economics research is worth this level of damage. Some amazing get-rich-quick scheme?"

Jack allowed himself a patronising smile.

"Phryne, given that the standard response from an economist as to the way to interpret a new piece of information is "it's too early to say", that has to be unlikely. Gervase said it to me - about the Hundred Years War."

She narrowed her eyes at him, but as ever, her sense of humour overcame her chagrin and she simply giggled. And he loved her a little bit more. And continued to hope.

"Who else can we ask? Without setting up Rossiter's hackles?" she asked.

He pulled a face. "We could try the students? The ones Gervase was supposed to have been meeting?"

They agreed that he would return the keys to the porters, mention the intrusion and ask for details of the tutor group. She would start the car – after the experience of the journey to the University, Jack had decided to put discretion, and his ability to function as a detective, over the valour of driving the Hispano-Suiza.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

The porter Johnson didn't have a list of Gervase's tutees, but at least recalled the one who'd alerted the staff to his absence, so Jack and Phryne headed round to the lodgings of Aubrey Smith, rather than alert the more informed staff in the office to their interest. They caught him just as he was leaving the house.

"Mr Smith?" asked Jack, showing his badge. The young man stiffened, and glanced around for a means of escape. Phryne hastily intervened, stepping in front of the Inspector.

"It's Aubrey, isn't it? I'm Phryne Fisher. Aren't first names a nightmare?" she grinned.

He relaxed back off the balls of his toes and gave her a half-smile. "Phryne? Really?"

"Oh, indeed," she said proudly. "I was supposed to have been Psyche but my father was drunk, so I was a famous courtesan with a social mission instead of the beauty murderously envied by Venus. How about you?"

"My mother was to blame. She thought that with a surname like Smith I should have a first name that was romantic, and she was a big Beardsley fan." The smile became wry. "She doesn't know that I use my last name exclusively now, rather than have anyone find out my first one."

She grinned understandingly. "Can you spare us a few minutes, Mr Smith? We'd very much like to know more about the death of Professor Carstairs, and we were hoping you might be able to give us some … background colour?"

He hesitated, and then his shoulders drooped and he turned back to the front door. Letting them in, he took them up to a small bedroom which was as scrupulously tidy as a student study could be – in other words, the bed was made and there were no empty food receptacles anywhere, but every surface was covered with books and scribbled notes. Hastily sweeping some from the sole chair, he indicated Phryne should sit, which she graciously did and looked up at him; Jack closed the door and propped himself against it.

"I don't really know what I can possibly tell you," Aubrey said, slightly sulkily.

"How long had you been in the Professor's tutor group?" asked Phryne. "Who else was in it?

"Just since the start of this term. I was really pleased – he's been doing some interesting stuff on bubbles and I was hoping to get to understand his thinking."

"I'm guessing we're not talking about the kind of thing I put in my bath," laughed Phryne.

"No," he agreed. "We were studying the ways in which people will, in certain circumstances, buy investments only because they think they're going to go up in value, and for no other reason."

Jack's brow furrowed at this. "Surely that's the case for every investment?"

Aubrey raised his hands, "Sorry. I'm explaining it badly. Usually, when someone makes an investment, they think there's something about it that will become worth more later – maybe a company with a new product, or a new trade route, or something. Where there's a bubble, the only thinking is 'I don't know what it is, or what it might be worth, but it's going up, so I want some.'"

He looked out the window and heaved a sigh. "I'd actually been going to ask the Professor about it that morning. One of the classic examples of a bubble is the tulip bulb trade in the seventeenth century. People were spending ridiculous amounts of money – more than a good annual income – on tulip bulbs as investments. I wanted to ask whether there couldn't have been a rational explanation too – maybe there was a new market for these bulbs that hadn't existed before."

He turned back to her. "But now the Professor's dead, so there's no-one to ask."

"Isn't there, though?" Jack saw the opportunity and grasped it. "Wasn't he working with one of the doctoral students on something like that?"

Aubrey snorted dismissively. "You mean Chorley? Inspector, Anthony Chorley is immensely decorative but my father's spaniel is too, and will probably contribute more than Chorley to the world's knowledge of basic supply and demand – especially for biscuits," he finished cuttingly.

 _Ouch_ , though Phryne. _There's something there_. "Well, if not Chorley, who else is there? Anyone particularly smart in the tutor group?"

Aubrey considered. "Not really. I think the smartest is probably Henry Conway, but he's not really academic, just a canny operator. His father's a very successful businessman, and Henry wants to impress him."

He reflected. "I actually feel quite sorry for Conway, even though he's appalling company. At least I don't have to go home every night to be asked if I've made my fortune yet."

He snorted. "Not a problem Chorley's going to have."

"Oh?" asked Phryne mildly. Aubrey shot a resigned look.

"Chorley has a trust fund. He can remain a student for the rest of his life if he wants to, and no-one would bat an eyelid. In fact," warming to his subject and revealing hitherto hidden capacity for cattiness, "he could even stay in education long enough to learn some basic economics."

Jack's lips twisted in appreciation. He decided to test his theory – delicately.

"Were Carstairs and Chorley ... good friends?"

Aubrey looked at him sharply. "I was one of the Professor's biggest fans, Inspector, and it won't do anything for his memory to bring up spurious speculation of that kind." Phryne was already picking up the baton, though – Jack knew a moment's satisfaction in the way his wife _his wife see almost no double take at all Oh Lord Almighty, HIS WIFE, how can two words create such an adrenaline rush?_ was so attuned to the direction of his thoughts. An idea nagged, but had to be shelved for the task at hand.

"Only spurious if it has nothing to do with his death, Aubrey," she pointed out and, academic that he was, he couldn't deny the logic. "We're really not interested in finding lesser crimes to prosecute."

He nodded reluctantly.

"Actually, I think they had been. Chorley used to be a pretty regular fixture in the Prof's rooms, and he would hang around for tutorials quite often. No-one really minded. It's always good to know there's someone there who will ask a stupider question." The claws, once unsheathed, were being relished in company that appreciated their edge.

"Something must have happened, though, because although he was a fixture for the first few weeks, he didn't come to either of our last tutes."

Phryne nodded in a businesslike fashion. "So we can check up on the stage of his research, and whether he'd moved on from Professor Carstairs' work. That's enormously helpful, thank you, Aubrey."

He was privileged to receive the 100-watt Phryne smile, and they were therefore almost back at the Hispano before he'd noticed they'd left.

"Are we dealing with some sort of academic Black Widow?" asked Phryne conversationally. "Finish with the provider of the current progeny of research feedback and then … kill it?"

It was a flippant question, but Jack was already on another track.

"No … it's not that, I think I'd like a word with young Conway. I could be wrong, but I've a gut feel about the root cause of the problem. If I'm right," he met her eye, "I've never known love to look so cold. Or, come to that, capitalism to look so ugly."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

The down side to seeking out Henry Conway was that they found themselves having to go via Rossiter to do so. At least, Jack had to. Neither of them was so foolish as to put Phryne within a five mile radius – in visible terms. In actuality, she was outside the window for the entire conversation, but as neither officer was aware of the fact, they probably both put down the odd noises they occasionally heard to a sudden influx of … birds.

(Neither officer was an ornithologist).

"Robinson."

"Rossiter."

"I didn't get the chance to congratulate you. Your marriage was so … hasty."

"Even with months of planning, it's good to know one can always take some people by surprise," responded Jack coolly.

A magpie-lark chirruped approvingly.

"I understand even Mrs Robinson's aunt was taken by surprise, so at least I'm in good company," Rossiter bit back. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"A small thing, but with the Carstairs affair going on, I wanted to check in with you – I didn't want to get in the way of your progress," said Jack placatingly.

Odd to find a Kookaburra around Grattan Street but the currents had been moving the sea air strangely lately.

"We've got a possible business fraud going on," Jack explained, "and we think that one of Jed Conway's stores may be implicated; but we also know that his son was in Gervase Carstairs' tutor group, so I'd rather you either gave us the Conways' address yourself, or else let us know we should steer clear."

A very Pallid Cuckoo was listening closely, if a touch hilariously.

Rossiter eyed him suspiciously, but Jack's expression was bland, with a nice touch of supplication.

"No problem, Robinson – I don't think we've got the tutor group's addresses, but the lads on the desk will be able to get it for you straight away. I've trained them well, you know."

Penguin.

Jack duly enquired at the desk and discovered that Rossiter's team were indeed far more on the ball than Rossiter himself. The Conways' address was swiftly supplied, and he made his way to the next block where Phryne was waiting in the Hispano – curled up in a ball, with her shoulders shaking. Throwing an arm around her, he joined her for a few minutes in her infectious hysterics, before straightening up, apostrophising her as a Witch, and starting the engine.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

The Conway house was more of a mansion, and as Jack drew the car to a halt, a maid was already opening the door to them. Introducing himself, Jack asked for Henry Conway; they were promptly shown into a tastefully-appointed drawing room and requested to wait.

Conway, when he arrived, was understandably edgy, and chose to cover his nerves with belligerence.

"What do you want?"

"Just to ask you a few question, Mr Conway," replied Jack coolly.

"I don't know why. Is this about the Prof's death? I don't know anything."

"Then it won't take long, Mr Conway," remarked Phryne.

Jack took over.

"We actually want to ask about one of the other members of the department – a Mr Anthony Chorley."

Conway sneered. "Chorley? What about him?"

"We understand he was a regular feature at your tutuorials."

"For a while, yes – he would sit at the back and ask fatuous questions – then pretend to be a swot, and spend the whole tutorial scribbling notes that he'd hand straight in to the Prof at the end of the session." He paused, smirking. "At least, they might have been notes."

Jack didn't miss a beat.

"If they weren't notes, what were they?"

"Letters, I should think. Certainly, the Prof never read them then and there, he'd fold them and put them in his coat pocket."

Phryne glanced at Jack, and he nodded slightly. So, the documents they were after were probably letters. Love letters? It seemed possible.

"Did you speak to Chorley yourself much?"

"No, never. Not my type, Inspector, if you know what I mean." The sneer was back, and even more pronounced.

"And I understand he recently stopped attending tutorials?" pressed Jack.

"Yes, a couple of weeks ago. I don't think it was because he'd learned everything there was to know – perhaps he'd had some other reason for attending," smirked Conway.

"Thank you, Mr Conway, that will be all for now." Phryne could tell from the deadpan delivery that Jack was trying hard not to let his disgust for Conway show.

As they rose to leave, the door opened and a stout, florid man came into the room – clearly Conway senior.

"What's this? Henry, who are these people?"

Jack and Phryne introduced themselves once more.

"Mr Conway has been trying to help us fathom out what could have happened to his Professor, sir," said Jack politely.

"Oh yes, he's a smart lad, my Henry," said Mr Conway senior proudly. "He'll be a self-made man like me one day, Inspector." He began escorting them down the hall to the front door.

"But surely, it can't hurt to have such a comfortable setting – he's a lucky lad, your son," said Jack smilingly.

"Oh, he gets his bed and board, Inspector, but that's all. My children aren't going to learn how to make a fortune if they get given allowances and all that nonsense. No, they have to make their own way, just like I did."

Phryne and Jack expressed admiration for his approach, and shook hands with both Conways before departing.

Again, Jack drove, and they were out of the drive and into the street before Phryne glanced at him and inquired as to their destination.

"Back to the University," he said baldly. "I want another look at Gervase's room, now I think I know what we're looking for.

The porters again supplied keys, and they re-entered Gervase's room, which had been returned to a semblance of order. This time, they stood still for a while and thought. Then Jack went to sit at the desk, and started pulling out drawers – but instead of checking their contents, checked their undersides.

Phryne nodded approvingly, and started to wander the sides of the room. The books had been returned to the shelves, albeit in no kind of order. She ran a pensive finger along their spines and moved along the bookshelf. At the end was the mantelpiece. Looking up, she admired the picture – a print of a Rembrandt.

"Bingo," she breathed. Jack looked up sharply.

She moved to the painting, and carefully lifted it away from the wall to peer behind it. Smiling, she let it rest against the wall.

"Behold, Jack." He looked at the painting, trying to decipher the subject matter. A turbaned figure was in the centre, embracing a young warrior with flowing golden locks.

"Rembrandt," she said with satisfaction. "'David and Jonathan'. And unless I'm much mistaken, the complete works of Anthony Chorley to Gervase Carstairs taped carefully to the back."

Between them, they lifted the picture off the wall and carefully removed a dozen sheets of paper written in green ink and a florid hand. Phryne glanced at one or two of them and blinked.

"You might want to avoid showing these to Senior Constable Collins, Inspector – he's perhaps slightly too easily shocked."

Jack looked over her shoulder, swallowed and blushed charmingly.

"Thank you for the advice, Miss Fisher – I think Collins may not be alone in that."

Noting his reaction, she grinned delightedly, and whispered a suggestion in his ear that made him blush even more.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

They had just re-hung the picture and were preparing to leave when the door handle was quietly turned. Immediately, they both moved to stand silently behind it, and as the door swung open, held their breath.

Anthony Chorley edged into the room.

And spun round when Jack pushed the door closed behind him.

"Mr Chorley. Just the man I wanted to see," he remarked chattily.

"Wha- what are you doing here Inspector? Phryne?" Chorley had gone a little pale, and sat down rather heavily in a threadbare armchair.

"We came to look for some letters, Chorley. We found them." If possible, Chorley went even paler.

"Don't worry, Chorley. I'm not going to arrest you for homosexuality." The young man swallowed, and recovered some of his colour. He lost it altogether with Jack's next words.

"I'm arresting you for murder."

"It was you who took Miss Fisher's gun from her bag at the ball, wasn't it? When you said you hadn't seen anyone go to our table while we were dancing – it was you yourself who'd done so. My guess is you followed us out of the ballroom and watched us come over here, then sneaked in after we left." Jack was warming to his theme now.

"It was Conway, wasn't it? Blackmailing you?"

This, at least, received a sullen nod.

Phryne picked up the tale.

"He doesn't get any kind of allowance from his father, but he likes to live the high life, so he had to find a source of funds – and decided your trust fund would be as good a source as any."

She tilted her head. "I'm guessing that, rather than be milked dry by Conway, you broke it off with Gervase?" Another sullen nod.

"But that didn't stop Conway. Even if he couldn't threaten to expose a relationship that no longer existed, he'd seen you writing the letters, and decided to get hold of those instead.

"I don't understand why you had to shoot Gervase, though."

"He wouldn't give me the letters!" shouted Chorley. "I went to him a week ago, and asked him to give them back to me, but he wouldn't tell me where they were, and he wouldn't destroy them either. He said they were all he had of me now, and that I shouldn't ask it!"

He glared at them both, with tears building in his eyes.

"What sort of love is that? How could he be so selfish?"

He wrung his hands.

"I decided the only thing to do was to show him I meant business – that I was serious. I knew Phryne often carried a gun, and it was easy to get hold of it while you were dancing. After you'd gone, I went up to Gervase's room and woke him up, and threatened him with it."

"But surely, when you shot him, you lost any chance of finding the letters?" asked Jack.

"I didn't mean to shoot him! I only meant to frighten him, and the damn thing went off!" wailed Chorley plaintively. "It wasn't my fault!"

Phryne rolled her eyes as Jack snapped on the handcuffs.

"Jack, let's take him to Rossiter at North and let him do the work of explaining whose fault it is when a gun goes off. They deserve each other. I want my revolver back, and then I'd like a drink."


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Mr and Mrs Robinson sat quietly by their fireside, each nursing a glass of aromatic Glenlivet. No words had been spoken for a few minutes, and Jack tilted his head to look at his wife for a calculating moment. Deeming the time right, he set down his glass, and stood up, closing the gap between them with the smallest of paces and the deepest of breaths.

And sank down on one knee, reaching into his waistcoat pocket.

She'd been learning to look for magic ever since they'd met, so she did no more than set down her own glass and watch him with an expectant half-smile.

"Miss Fisher … I realise that the first time I asked this question, you would have been excused for thinking that it was solely because of a need to keep you alive and out of jail. It wouldn't be the first time you had unquestioningly followed my advice – the appointment of a certain Special Constable springs to mind. I'm also conscious that, with only a few hours' notice, I was obliged to give you something to wear that is quite possibly the only purely functional ornament you've ever suffered. Perhaps one day there will be bullet-proof lingerie, but until then, I think a plain gold wedding band will be the plainest thing about you."

He took her hand.

"I have no idea what growing old with you might look like, Phryne, but I would very much like to find out; and because I need you to carry on being the most extraordinarily beautiful gift I have ever received, I want to give you a ring that expresses what you are to me. You might think it a little old fashioned..."

He opened the box and, disarmingly, his heart.

"Please, Phryne – my dearest friend and my only love – will you spend the rest of your life with me?"

The ring had lustre, and sparkle, and glow, in a range of different stones which spelled out their own message.

Diamond, emerald, amethyst, ruby, emerald, sapphire, topaz. A piece of very touching Victoriana.

Her breath caught at the beauty of the ring, the gesture and his words.

She held out her left hand and watched him place the ring next to the gold band and the lightest of kisses on the tips of her fingers.

"Do you know, Jack, I rather think I will."


End file.
